


absolute territory

by arcanawildcard, clairelutra (exosolarmoon)



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Cunnilingus, Dressing Room Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Hair-pulling, Multiple Orgasms, Pining, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 09:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18518398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanawildcard/pseuds/arcanawildcard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/exosolarmoon/pseuds/clairelutra
Summary: (Anyone wanna go shopping with me? I need someone to carry my bags,Ann had said, and Ryuji had responded,Who the hell would go after hearing that?!and Akira was very, very, very glad that Ryuji hadn't considered thatcarrying Ann's bagswould involve seeing her in slew of outfits to the tune ofkneesocks and a sweater just big enough to leave you wondering if she was wearing anything under it at all,because hereallydidn't need the competition.)





	absolute territory

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd; i'll give it a look over later, but if anyone sees typos, i'd super appreciate hearing about them :D;; ~~i just want to post this before i'm TWO days late to my promised weekly posting~~

So, somewhere between the third and fourth time they fucked (fooled around, made love, things that had her gasping and giggling and mewling in his ears, sweat-slick and sex-slick and _hot_ around his fingers and his tongue and his— _gmnf that was a bad line of thought_ ), Ann had cottoned on to the fact that, while Akira would probably think she was gorgeous in a potato sack, there _were_ things that he liked seeing her in more than others.

And he wasn't sure _how_ she managed to separate out the outfits that made him want to tackle her down and bury her in soft things and put his hands _all over her_ from the ones that had him feeling like he'd just stepped into Shinjuku in the middle of a heatwave from the ones that left him fumbling for words and desperately wishing he could rip it all off with his teeth, but she had, and she'd paraded so many of them for him in the past three hours that he'd given up on formulating sentences ages ago and was starting to lose grip on coherent words altogether.

( _Anyone wanna go shopping with me? I need someone to carry my bags,_ Ann had said, and Ryuji had responded, _Who the hell would go after hearing that?!_ and Akira was very, very, very glad that Ryuji hadn't considered that _carrying Ann's bags_ would involve seeing her in slew of outfits to the tune of _kneesocks and a sweater just big enough to leave you wondering if she was wearing anything under it at all,_ because he _really_ didn't need the competition.)

He was trying to play a game on his phone (some mindless Snake-expy that he was usually damn good at) while trying _not_ to listen to the rasp of skin against skin against fabric in the dressing room next to him, but the fact that his last five losses had amounted to his train hitting the wall several blocks in front of the starting point should probably tell you how well he was managing.

"What about this one?" Ann asked as she pushed the curtain aside. Her voice combined with the _fwish_ of the curtain loops brought him odd visions of Caroline grabbing up her chainsaw when an execution went sideways.

Fearing for his life both like and _unlike_ he did in those moments, Akira looked up.

And gulped.

Black hose—no, stockings—slightly sheer black stockings that clung to her graceful calves and squeezed her thighs tight enough to create that little bulge of _squish_ at the top, held up by garters while legs and garters both disappeared up a skirt so short it nearly revealed those hickeys he'd given her only a couple of days ago and yet sat _low_ enough that he could see the whole leadup to her belly button, toned stomach not so toned that it lost that distracting _softness_ and _oh, hell,_ that skin-tight catsuit did her no justice _at all_ —

The internal ramble cut off abruptly at the realization that her shirt, in addition to revealing her stomach, was not buttoned up in the slightest, loose ends knotted below her bra—

Which was lacy and black and laid perfectly over the creamy skin of her boobs, all of which he could just. See. Because that's just. How it was.

 _It's rude to stare,_ said some old, ingrained decency in the back of his mind, not nearly loud enough to rip his eyes away.

She leaned forward slightly, just enough to get the shadows to shift on her cleavage, and suddenly he was drowning in the sense memory of what it was like to feel it against his lips, in his hands, the weight and softness and pressure and the taste of her skin as he lapped his way up her breastbone—

He gulped again.

Ann was standing there in— in— in _that,_ and he could kind of physically _feel_ his brain dribbling out of his ears.

"Well? What do you think?"

(Her voice was three quarters her normal, chirpy, bouncy self, and one quarter something breathless and heated and _ohh, he wasn't imagining that, was he._ )

What did he think?

He _thought_ that someone seemed to have invited August's sweltering heat into the back of this big chain outlet, industrial-grade air conditioning or no.

"...It looks nice," he managed in a relatively normal octave and relatively steady tone that relatively did not give away how frayed his sanity had gotten.

Relatively.

Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say, no matter how much effort it had taken him to formulate. Her face fell, accompanied by a full-body slump that snared a slew of hooks in his chest and _yanked._

"...What's wrong?"

She heaved a sigh, the black of the bra shifting under her white shirt and bringing exactly one quarter of his attention to the fact that the shirt was just slightly translucent. "No, nothing..."

"It's definitely something."

Her lip jutted in a slight pout for a few seconds, her eyes fixed listlessly to his right, on the bag that held the spoils from the last ~~torture session~~ store, then, drooping, she whined, "How are you so cool and collected over _everything?_ It's not fair."

Akira didn't feel particularly cool. Or collected. He was actually kind of impressed with his own skill at faking it. There was a reason why another one of those bags remained hanging off his wrist and strategically placed in front of his crotch.

Getting out of this store was going to be a _pain._

"It's a talent," he said, because his facade at least deserved that much credit.

She looked at him through her eyelashes with the most pathetic puppy pout he'd ever seen on her, and the hooks in his chest gave another violent jerk. "Are you just waiting for an invitation...?"

...Invitation?

"Sure am," he replied through the mental fuzz, reflexively checking his phone to hide the fact that his mind had long since jumped headlong into the gutter and he could no longer tell what was intentional innuendo and what was not.

Ann gave another exasperated (and well-deserved, seriously, even _he_ didn't know what came out of his mouth sometimes) sigh and glanced around the dressing room.

He was too busy counting his apps to glance with her (he knew where his eyes would go the instant he looked up, and they wouldn't go any place good for public decency), but whatever she found seemed to satisfy her, because she stopped looking to glance at the floor, take a bracing breath, and then look at him fully with a flush and a shy smile.

"...D'ya wanna come in?"

"Yeah, definitely," he answered faintly, but every cell in his body was too busy clamoring, _yes, yes please, yes-yes-yes, anything, anything at all, yes, **please,**_ to fully put together that the question wasn't theoretical.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, her expectant and him stunned stupid, until her patience gave out and she leaned forward to grab a fistful of his shirt to drag him into the stall with her.

A distant shuffle of forgotten bags and rush of vertigo and the swish of curtains ended with her torso sandwiched tight between his and the wall, mind-blowing curves rather effectively blowing his mind—or, you know, whatever was left of it—even before her soft lips met his jaw in a series of needy kisses.

Oh. Well. Okay then.

Not theoretical. Not... theoretical at all.

It was exactly as easy as he thought it would be to get his hands under her gaping shirt and push the cups of the bra down off her breasts, replace them with his palms and feel the plush _give_ of her flesh under his maybe-kinda-frantic groping.

It was much harder to keep from groaning out loud as he did so, but...

Three hours. Of _hell._

And she felt. So. Good.

Hot breath accompanied a bite at his throat, something he recognized as a tongue pressing fierce at his Adam's apple as he gulped down the groan—that felt more weird than sexy, but it was accompanied by a near-painful grip in his hair and _that_ went straight to his groin.

She let go so she could wrap both arms around his neck and use him as support as she hopped up and clamped her legs around him, sleek thighs scrambling for purchase on his hips, and suddenly it was those thighs flexing under his hands, the soft skin of her shoulder and collarbone bumping against his face.

He could feel his eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzled as much of it as was available to him—she smelled _dizzyingly_ good, faint perfume only strong enough to enhance and entwine with the smell of musk and spice.

He nuzzled down as far as he could, then lifted her higher so he could nuzzle down further, pinning her to the wall with his weight and cradling her thighs. She squeezed his waist and encouraged him with fingers combing and tugging at his hair, each little pull sending a _jolt_ through his system and making his hips twitch against thin air.

All his nuzzling led to the logical conclusion of his face buried between her breasts while his nose pressed against her breastbone, which was exactly the logical conclusion he was looking for. It felt like _heaven._

He paused there, just to enjoy the sensation (skin prickling, the raw heat in his system singing warmth, the mouth-watering _softness_ of her), and Ann let go of his hair—took her hands off of him _entirely_ —to...

To squish her boobs against his face.

He glanced up, startled laughter bubbling in his gut; she winked and stuck her tongue out at him.

(Incidentally, he might be a little bit in love with Ann Takamaki.)

He pushed his face back into her chest to catch his breath, a sweet ache constricting his airways, flicking out his own tongue to lap at the flesh she'd presented him with.

It earned him a huff and a sinuous squirm, which was encouragement enough for him.

He kept at it, licking and nipping and kissing for the taste of her skin and the helpless shifting of her hips and the near-silent panting that had that flesh shifting under his mouth, had him impulsively turning his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth and give it a sharp suck.

She _arched,_ a not-noise dragged out of her throat as she let go of her chest to clutch at his shirt, bucking desperately against his stomach.

The jump in intensity was _intoxicating._ He chased it, suckling gentler and wider, taking the nub between his teeth and stroking the tip, laving the velvety skin around it—all to Ann's soundless whines, clutching hands and restless hips, every muscle in her body clenching and flexing and searching for friction where there was none.

It was _heady._

The urge to tease was about as strong as the urge to get a hand between her legs so he could feel those reactions; teasing won out in the end.

He switched sides, pressing closer so he could feel every stuttering breath as he repeated the process on the other breast, squeezing her whole body as tight as he dared and feeling her thighs splay almost flat against the bottom of his ribcage, heels hitting his lower back.

Nip, suck, stroke, pull back to blow on the damp skin, repeat—trail kisses back up her breastbone and switch again when the fervor of her reaction started lessening, stop once or twice to leave hickeys on the perfect swell...

She was sweet (salty, musky, something unidentifiably _feminine_ under it all), _so sweet_ he really just wanted to _keep going_ until she started tugging at his hair again, whining, "C'mooon," so close to a mewl that it felt like the ground vanished out from under him for a second there.

Mindlessly, he let her slip down, supporting her on one side as he swatted her leg down on the other side, to her whimpering protests.

He managed to get them disentangled eventually, rocking back one absolutely _painful_ step to take stock of them, and—

Ohhh _fuck._

If he'd thought the outfit was bad before, that was _nothing_ on what it was now; the top did nothing to cover her breasts at all anymore, just framed her supple, flushed cleavage, the stiffened peaks of them bitten rosy and sporting new scarlet hickeys; it never had done anything to cover up her stomach, now working just above the skirt—

—which was caught between her thighs as she crossed them, squeezed them tight over her sex, muscles visibly twitching under the stockings and garters.

Akira... kind of just wanted to drop to his knees, speaking plainly.

And then he got back up to her face—eyes darkened and pleading, lips parted as she panted, taking him in much the same way he was looking at her—and dropping to his knees jumped up to the top of his priority list.

The hardwood floors weren't too kind when he did, nor did Ann seem to want to let him back between her legs again (which was fair, but he wasn't here to tease this time, honest), but nibbling at the plush above her stockings coaxed her into relaxing, and blowing hot air into the soaked fabric of her panties seemed to convince her of his intentions.

Even through the frantic jerk of her hips, it was easy enough to find the elastic waistband and pull them down (plain white, low riding, threads of slick clinging to the panel), but then he ran into the problem of her garters and lost precious seconds to fumbling off the clasps (four clasps was _way too many clasps,_ who designed these things anyway?) before they could drop to the ground.

He felt a split second of regret for undoing the clasps, but then realized that Ann was so wet she was _actually dripping,_ and Akira decided that, you know, the loose straps could stay; they really, _really_ could.

She was _so_ wet he ended up fighting his gag reflex as he tried to get it all, her fluids too thick to go down easy, half-wincing into her folds as she gripped his hair and ground against his face.

He managed to lap up the excess without gagging or suffocating, but he was pretty sure some of her slick had ended up in his nose in the scuffle. That would probably be less sexy once he stopped drowning in her (literally and metaphorically) and remembered how to think.

For now, he could only lick from taint to clit and swallow another mouthful, dizzy on the feeling, the taste, the way she quivered, the barely-heard noises shuddering through her entire body, stifled gasps and bitten-down whimpers.

He let her rut against his face while he went for the button on his jeans, freeing his aching dick and relaxing as the hitherto unnoticed discomfort released.

That settled, he couldn't exactly hook her legs over his shoulders, but...

He got her left shin braced on his shoulder and her foot set against the wall, encouraging her to slide down a little so he wouldn't strain his neck so much. It had the nice side effect of limiting her leverage and making this easier.

He was starting to get the hang of going down on her—no teeth near her clit, but instead alternate gentle kisses and ghosting sucks with tracing her folds and stroking just in and out of her slit; press firmer the closer she got, but not faster; trying to hold her still would have her tensing up in a bad way if she hadn't come yet, but after that it was fair game; one finger inside her, no more, working in time with his mouth...

(She was always vocal, but getting her to _literally scream_ was an ego trip that had had him walking on air for _days._ If he ever needed incentive to learn this, there it was.)

She wasn't screaming now; she was shuddering in pulses, exhaling unvoiced whines through some and holding her breath through others, her nails digging into his scalp hard enough to hurt (one of the less comfortable victories in life, but so, so, _so sweet_ ) as she tried to ride his face from this new angle.

He stroked her thighs, loose garter straps tangling in his fingers, and helped her as much as he could until those thighs were trembling, her sex clenching, her breathing so shaky it almost sounded like sobbing—at which point he grabbed her hips, pinned them against the wall, and circled her clit at that pressure that he was pretty sure would make her _snap_ —

And _snap_ she did, wetness splurting over his chin as her body _spasmed,_ back arching and breath catching on a rich, quivering, _unbearably hot_ little gasp.

He took his mouth off her when the tension released, Ann slumping over his head and petting his hair in clumsy apology as every muscle in her went lax, save the ones twitching against his lips.

He turned his head to nibble the silky skin next to his cheek, checking on half-faded hickeys while he waited for her to come down.

It was partially petty, possessive jealousy and partially just that it was the nearest patch of unmarked skin that had him picking the space just below his last few to add a new one—a mark low enough that she _would_ show it off if she wanted to wear this particular skirt—licking up the slick he rubbed off on her as he worked.

He made good headway on it before her breathing evened out and her hands steadied, her limbs going from 'limp' to merely 'relaxed'.

(It was also long enough for him to start paying attention to his own body again—he was lightheaded and shaking, ravenous and burning up, fuck, this was _never_ going to get any less amazing, holy _shit_ —

And _also_ long enough for the blistering, _molten_ pressure in his abdomen and groin to make itself known. Loudly.

 _Later, later, later,_ he promised himself. He'd been waiting for three hours now; he could wait a little longer.)

Once he was fairly sure she wouldn't fuss at him for it, he started biting at her outer folds, teething gently at waxed-smooth skin, waiting for her breathing to deepen and quicken before easing back into it.

She let him do the work this time, content to fingercomb his hair as he coaxed her into leaking arousal again, into trembling and melting for him again.

It was easier now that she wasn't frantic, willing to slouch to give him better access and stay still while his tongue moved, hunched over and panting into his hair, and the heat filtering through to his scalp _definitely_ wasn't distracting him from the problem in his pants—or... out of his pants, as it were.

Nor was her lazy petting, fingertips skating through the sweat gathered at the back of his neck, a breathy sigh of, _"Akira...!"_ so close to his ear it was a little crazy-making.

He forced himself to slow down, draw it out, even if he could feel his pulse throughout his entire body and a good portion of his psyche had long since devolved from white static into a whimpering mess.

The process was agonizing, but his reward was the way he could feel the coil of tension in her tighten, feel the way her tremors slowly, slowly, _oh so slowly_ escalated in intensity, feel the full progression from 'lethargic afterglow' to 'begging for more.'

Actually, literally _begging,_ whispering pleas as she kneaded at him, a result of alternating between clutching and forcing herself to relax, locking the knee of the leg still on the ground but relying on him to support her the rest of the way, hips trying to squirm against his mouth as she forgot to hold still.

Ego trip who? Akira might've met him once or twice.

He kept teasing as long as he possibly could, pinning her back against the wall to keep the pressure right—coaxing more and more and more until he... well. Accidentally coaxed her right into a climax.

She came _hard,_ whole body shuddering and clenching in waves, slick spilling onto his tongue in the aftermath of each—slick eagerly lapped up as his head spun and _spun_ at the taste of her, salty and sharp and _filthy_ and _sex_ —and he kept at it, thickly realizing that she was _saying his name,_ words and voice so broken up that it took him several seconds to put together the stuttering _ah_ and _ki_ and _ra_ together.

And then he did.

And then he really had to wonder if he should give stock to that _coming untouched_ thing, because _oh, god_...

He was the one who had to pull away then, resting his head against her raised thigh as he tried and failed to catch his breath, vertigo hitting like a velvet punch to the solar plexus.

Fuck, he wanted— wanted— _needed,_ needed so bad, he didn't even fully know _what_ he needed anymore, just that he needed it so bad that this was nigh unbearable—

 _Nigh_ unbearable, not completely unbearable, especially not when she dropped her weight onto that same thigh and traced the shell of his ear, fond and weak and _grounding,_ somehow.

He glanced up before it occurred to him to think better of it.

Flushed and dazed, so wrecked and so _open,_ smile wobbly but genuine as she stroked his ear again and whispered, "Hi."

He turned his face away, gulping and panting, because he could feel something inside him snap and _crunch_ at that expression, and he didn't want to know what the damage would be if he kept looking.

It was easier to force his breathing into something more even, focus his attention on the pain in his neck, nuzzle the skin he could reach, leaving patches of _wet_ in his wake, and start to take stock of _her_ through the haze.

...Still tense.

Not _fully_ tense, but tenser than she'd been the first time around, not quite done yet.

Tense enough that laying a hand on her waist and pushing until she got the message and straightened was only logical, that leaning forward and nuzzling her stiff clit instead was the best course of action, even if it meant that he was the one earning a startled laugh this time.

She cut it off with a stifled gasp when he ran the tip of his tongue up the underside, then pushed it back hard, squeezing it between his lips and then circling around it. Teasing wasn't the aim here—he had almost, _almost_ no patience left. All he really wanted was that stumbling gait and silly grin she'd sport walking out of here.

She let up on his hair in favor of fisting her hands in the shoulders of his shirt, which was good, because his scalp had been starting to complain at the abuse. The neckline scraping up his nape and digging into the back of his head had its own kind of appeal, actually.

It took surprisingly little to make that tension snap this time; by the time he was on the third pattern repetition, those muscles were pulsing against his face in a familiar rhythm, nothing but a deep, stuttering sigh on her lips.

He kept going until they slowed to a stop and she pushed him away.

She then slid down the wall with a purring groan that he was too overcome to appreciate, sneakers squeaking against the wood and the disheveled outfit that was the start of it all coming back into his line of vision. She landed in his lap, ass on his knees and her own splayed indecently wide.

At which point he was too out of it to remember exactly what it was he'd needed, was probably due to come at the next stiff breeze, and, in absence of direction, stared near-sightlessly at her, eyes roaming from collarbones to cleavage to hickies to bellybutton to squished thighs and back.

It was, he noted distantly, a very nice view.

He landed on her face just as she was blinking the lights back on behind her own eyes, looking _him_ up and down in enviably lazy satisfaction.

Until she came to his crotch, and then it clouded over in a half-pout.

An expression he didn't fully register until she reached out and—

Akira's vision flashed white, a heat-whammy _scorching_ from head to toe, and, oh—oh right.

That.

He pitched forward until he met the starched fabric of her overshirt, barely registering the mess he was probably leaving on it because Ann hand was circling his cock, stroking it so lightly that it was downright _excruciating,_ every hair standing on end and a noise of _some_ sort stuck in his throat, desperately trying to squeeze its way out—

Fabric sliding up his wet face, his lips meeting soft skin, barely noticing that she was guiding him into sitting back until she squeezed his dick ever so slightly tighter and guided the tip until it met with something silky and hot and _wet_ —

And then she enveloped him in one slick rush and—

He managed to get all the way inside her before everything just kind of _detonated._

The orgasm was honest-to-god _painful,_ lasting long enough he could hear the whimpers torn from his throat, feel his arms cramp with how tight he was gripping her, curling around her, into her, closer closer _closer_ —he was already as far inside her as he could get, _why couldn't he get close enough_ —every crest threatening to tip him to shreds—

And then it was over. The relief that chased it hurt nearly as much.

He probably blacked out for a minute there, his head floating somewhere that was _probably_ cloud nine (he'd figure that out... later), coughing as he wheezed into her shoulder, slowly coming enough to register things that weren't the ringing in his ears or his dangerously high blood pressure.

Fuzzily, it occurred to him that if he was holding onto her tight enough that his arms ached, that was probably... a bad thing. A hurting thing? She might be... hurting. A very bad thing.

He relaxed his grip, grunting in an attempt to apologize as her chest rose and fell in a sigh of relief.

Then her body rippled in... a laugh? A laugh, one hand smoothing down his spine and the other cradling his head.

He started registering sensations fully just in time for her to lay a row of kisses from his ear to his temple, the words, "I'd say that was pretty awesome," purring and confidential and smug in the empty space between his ears.

"Mng," he managed in reply, not one hundred percent sure what he was agreeing with, but if it was coming out of Ann's mouth, it was probably true.

She kept petting as he slowly wandered down from the high, as the overwhelmed fog cleared enough for the aftermath to start to feel good, then _really_ good, then for it to pass through euphoric to just _really damn good._

"So... this one's a keeper?" she asked, part mischief and part shy earnestness, and Akira maybe melted a little further.

"Mnn..." he tried. Then, "Mmm." Then managed a rough, half-gutted, "...Yeah."

She inhaled deeply, held her breath for one beat, and then punched the air with a, _"Yes!"_

_Oh, come on._

He pressed into her shoulder further so he didn't have to think about what his aching, squirming, overheated face looked like.

(Incidentally, he might be a lot in love with Ann Takamaki.)

"Whew!" she said in self-satisfied tone that didn't help his problem _at all._ "That took a while."

"A while?" he echoed, once the words had filtered through his brain and still didn't make sense.

"To find one you liked," she clarified, smug. Then, much wryer, she added, "That was... pretty difficult."

"To... find an outfit I liked," he repeated, just to make sure, because that sure as _hell_ wasn't how he remembered the past three-odd hours.

"Mhmm," she sighed, distractingly high and fluttery, shimmying off him and reaching for her bag.

Cold air on his softened dick was a very strange way to be informed that this wasn't some weird hallucination, and that Ann really _didn't_ know what had been running through his head this whole time, was somehow unaware of the pure, heavenly _torture_ she'd been inflicting on him for actual, literal _hours._

He was still trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to _reply_ to that when she produced a packet of tissues, preening and expectant, and the words scurried a little farther away.

Somewhere between Ann giggling as she wiped at his face and him taking the tissues to get the slick out of his nose (definitely less sexy out of the heat of the moment, but not... necessarily _unsexy,_ especially because it made him think about how he still had the taste of her in his mouth), he gave up on forming the right words to tell her about the torture.

And then, once she was done cleaning herself, she staggered to her feet and pulled up her underwear from where it was hooked on her ankle, murmuring something about whether or not there were any other good outfits in the lot.

He staggered to his feet after her when he saw that she was about to toss that one high-waisted skirt that had had him completely ruining his win streak in the Snake game.

(The way it just... _swished_ around her thighs, god. Did her legs go on forever or was the hem just up to waterline? He'd never know unless he got his hands under it. It was _hypnotic._ )

He leaned over her shoulder, not quite resting his chin there as he picked the skirt out of 'toss' pile and put it in the 'keep' pile, and he could feel her turning her head in question.

"The big sweater too, the cream one." Schrodinger's underthings were _potent,_ dammit.

"Huh?"

"And the denim shorts." Were those the ones called 'daisy dukes'? Did it matter when they showed off the underside of her ass like that?

He got the tight black tanktop and clingy, fluttery white blouse while he was at it, because he would happily stare at her in that outfit for hours, days, _weeks_ —every move she made _gorgeously_ highlighting another part of her in folds and shadow...

"Wai-wai-wait, hold up," she said, her nose bumping into his cheek as she attempted to look at him again. "You _liked_ those?"

"...'Liked' is a mild word."

"Then why didn't you _say_ something?" she demanded, aggravated. _Adorably_ aggravated.

He paused as he considered the question, then admitted, "I've heard it's not very polite to tell someone their outfit makes you want to bend them over a table." He then thought about his answer for another second or two, kissing the junction between her neck and shoulder as he amended it with, "Repeatedly. On many different tables."

She groaned, the skin under his lips heating up. "I-I mean, I guess you don't have to _say_ it, but... are you ever _not_ completely nonchalant?"

(Somehow, it wasn't the insane high he was still riding that came to mind, nor the way this whole afternoon had stretched him to the breaking point. It was the silly little smile that refused to be squashed whenever he watched her for too long, how viscerally _painful_ it was when life finally brought her to tears, the disconcerting suspicion that he was already in _way_ deeper than he should be with someone he'd have to leave come next March.)

"...Who knows."

She huffed in a 'typical' sort of tone, then let him help her sort through the rest of the outfits.

It was only after they had a definitive selection that fit within her budget and blended practicality with the more mind-melting sets that Ann brought up the elephant in the tiny dressing room.

"...Think we can get out of here without getting caught?"

"Never know until we try."

**Author's Note:**

> that's a shenanigan unto itself.


End file.
